“Just black. Thank you.” He mentally applauded himself for not lunging at the cup. “I’ll be less rude once I get some caffeine in me.”
Maybe. It was a fifty-fifty shot. Scott didn’t consider himself an asshole, but he also knew he wasn’t the poster child of pretty manners, or pretty anything for that matter.
Claire didn’t acknowledge his commentary on his rudeness. She simply handed him the mug, then pulled a container of coffee creamer from the fridge and added a liberal amount to her mug. She pulled out a spoon and stirred the liquid from dark brown to a pale tan color.
He gave a slight shake of his head at the crime of diluting the caffeine.
“So, I know you haven’t seen the whole house yet, but what do you think?” she asked, cupping both hands around the mug and lifting it to her face. She didn’t take a sip, just watched him over the top, the steam adding another layer of mystery to those strange green-gold eyes.
Scott met her gaze directly. “It’s god-awful. But you already know that.”
She lowered her mug and tilted her head, studying him the way one would a zoo animal.
“What?” he asked, a little surprised to realize that he was genuinely interested in what she was thinking.
“I was under the impression that you and Oliver are good friends.”
“We are.”
“Huh.” She took a sip of her coffee, and damn it, he was all the way interested now.
“That surprises you?” he asked, sipping his own coffee. It was good. Really good.
“Well, yes. Oliver has impeccable manners. You, not so much.”
Scott shrugged. “What did you expect me to say, that the house has character? I don’t speak in niceties, Ms. Hayes, so if you’re looking for gentle euphemisms on what needs to be done, I’m not your guy.”
And he wanted to be her guy, as it related to this project. This home needed him.
“I suppose it’s refreshing. In its way,” Claire said, apropos of nothing, as though he hadn’t spoken.
“Sorry?”
Claire waved a hand over him. “The basic blue jeans. The flannel over T-shirt that I haven’t seen since Gilmore Girls was on the air. A jawline that’s . . .” She tilted her head and studied him. “Four days past a shave?”
He ran a palm over his stubble. Four days seemed about right. “Good eye.”
She shrugged. “You date kitchens; I date men’s grooming. Seven years of marriage will do that for you.”
Right. He’d been so eager to get this meeting over with, he’d forgotten that Claire Hayes was a relatively recent widow. “Sorry about that,” he said gruffly. “Heard he was a real asshole.”
Over the past year, Scott had gotten to know Oliver’s girlfriend, Naomi, who’d filled him in on some of the dirty details of how she’d met Claire the day of her husband’s funeral. It pissed him off. He didn’t put stock in relationships, but he damn well expected people who did enter them not to cheat.
She laughed into her coffee. “Are you sorry because he died, or because he was a real asshole?”
Scott shrugged again. “You tell me. I didn’t know the guy.”
Claire set her mug aside. “To be clear, Mr. Turner, if we decide to work together, discussion of my deceased husband is off-limits.”
“Fine by me.” He preferred it, actually.
She nodded in acknowledgment. “So. Are you interested? I know it’s small compared to what you normally do. And I’ll tell you right now that I have some money set aside, but I know this is no minor undertaking, and I have no idea how much it’ll cost, or if I can afford it. Depending on the quote you come back with, I may have to phase out the renovation.”
He nodded, already knowing he’d fit the project to her budget, not the other way around. Even before he’d been financially secure, Scott had never made his decisions based on the money. It all came down to instinct, and he’d known the moment he’d walked in the door that this was the challenge he wanted. The chance to build a home, his way, not some sterile, elaborate showpiece whose primary purpose was to get a write-up in Architectural Digest.
“Let’s forget the budget for now,” he said, helping himself to more coffee. Scott held up the pot, silently offering a top-off, but she shook her head.
He turned toward her, leaning back against the counter, which he noted was a full two inches too low. Either it had been designed for someone exceptionally short or, more likely, whoever had built the house hadn’t given a crap about detail.
“What’s your vision?” Scott asked her.
She gave a small smile, the first one he’d seen yet, though it was still guarded. “How much time do you have?”
He tried not to wince. “So, you’ve got specifics in mind?”
Scott had been hoping for the opposite. That she wanted someone else to make the decisions. Him. He wanted to make the decisions for this place.
“Lots.”
He sighed. “Let’s see them.”
She hesitated, and his interest piqued. Based on the excitement he’d heard in her voice a moment ago, he’d have assumed she’d come at him ready with paint swatches and Pinterest boards.
Not that he minded the lack of the latter. Pinterest was his and every contractor’s worst enemy. Actually, scratch that. Pinterest was bad, but it was the damn house-flipping shows that were the real nightmare. Gone were the days when customers maybe had some vague opinion about the paint color for their bedroom but more or less trusted the contractors to take care of the rest. Now, people had rooms planned down to the square inch, wanting things like skylights on the ground floor.
The trouble was, most people didn’t have any vision. It was why he was so good at his job. Not only did he have vision, but for all his hermit ways, he also knew people. At least as it related to what they wanted out of their residence or office building or commercial project. That was what he was good at. Building what people didn’t even know they wanted.
“I’m still sort of . . . deciding,” she said, sounding hesitant in a way he guessed wasn’t typical for her.
“Explain,” he said bluntly. If they were going to work together, he needed to know up front if Claire Hayes was a loose cannon who wanted to turn her living room into an aviary or her master closet into a panic room.
“What’s your favorite cupcake?”
He stared at her. “Sorry?”
She laughed, looking surprised both by her own question and the laughter that followed. “Never mind. Let’s just say that I’m still working out the details on what exactly I want, but I know I don’t want boring.”
“I don’t do boring.”
“Do you do strawberry lemonade?”
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. Hell. Oliver and Naomi had conveniently forgotten to mention that Claire Hayes was off her rocker.
“What’s that have to do with the reno?” he asked.
“I’m still working on it,” she repeated. “But you can get started without knowing the details, right? Ripping up carpet, tearing off wallpaper, that sort of thing?”
He could. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Not if he was going to end up building a Candy Land house for a woman who was talking about cupcakes and strawberries.
“High-level vision,” he pressed.
“I already told you. Strawberry lemonade. You know, little touches of pink. Unexpected . . . delights.”
“Oh God,” he grumbled.
“A man who doesn’t like pink,” she said drolly. “How very original.”
“Pink doesn’t belong in houses.”
“Maybe not your house. I’m the one who will live here.”
Scott took another drink of the coffee. It really was very good. Too bad he was going to have to say no to the job. Pink. For God’s sake.
She studied him with those spooky hazel eyes of hers, looking oddly disappointed in him. “Haven’t you ever looked at your life and realized you were just . . . tired of it? Or yourself?”
Scott hesitated, wanting
to say no. He wanted to say that only the self-indulgent had the time and energy to sit around assessing one’s life direction and then talking to strangers about it. But the truth was . . . he did get it.
Wasn’t it the very reason he was standing in this eyesore of a kitchen in the first place? Because he needed a change? Because he had the sense the life he’d built so carefully to his own specifications was no longer doing it for him?
Scott scratched his cheek, a little surprised to realize that maybe he and this widowed housewife might understand each other more than he expected.
“I’ll do it.”
She looked skeptical. “Really? Even with the threat of pink? And you haven’t seen the whole place. It’s three bedrooms, three baths—”
“Sounds good. Starting tomorrow okay?”
“What? No! I haven’t even figured out—”
“We’ll figure it out later,” he said, draining the coffee and setting his mug in the sink. “That’s half the fun.”
“That doesn’t sound fun at all.”
He smiled a little at her honesty and headed back toward the front door. “We start at seven tomorrow, and every weekday thereafter. Weekends optional, depending on both our schedules. I’ll try to start on the lesser-used rooms first, try to upset your life as little as possible, though fair warning, it’ll be loud, and it’ll be messy. I work mostly alone, except when I need an extra pair of hands for the big stuff. You’ll be without a kitchen for a couple of weeks, because that thing is the worst, but I’m quicker than most, and I’m damn good.”
“Mr. Turner—”
“Scott,” he said. “We’re about to live in each other’s back pocket, so first names are a must. And last thing. No pink.”
Her eyes narrowed in warning. “Sorry, I must be confused. I thought this was my home.”
He nodded, rocked back on his boots. “Absolutely it is. Which is why I can assure you that you will regret making it look like Pepto exploded in here.”
She gave him a withering look. “A little credit, please. I’m not entirely without taste.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think when you say things like strawberry lemonade. I have no idea what the hell that means. And I don’t think you do, either.”
“No. I don’t,” she snapped. “But I’m going to figure it out with or without you. Isn’t that half the fun? And yes, it will mean some pink. Or,” she added when he grimaced, “I can find someone else.”
“Someone else will be a yes-man,” he argued.
“That sounds great,” she said enthusiastically.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. The project wouldn’t be easy. The client definitely wouldn’t. And yet . . .
He scanned the space once more. Truly, truly awful.
Scott looked back at her. “I’ll be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. We can talk money and timeline. How do you feel about dogs?”
“Dogs?”
Scott hesitated, knowing it was unprofessional, but then decided he didn’t care. “I travel a lot and don’t get to see my dog as much as I’d like. I was thinking—hoping—I could bring Bob with me.”
“Oh.” A faint line appeared between her eyebrows, and she appeared to be deliberating his question very carefully. “I guess that’d be okay.”
He felt a surge of relief that he’d have at least a few weeks to spend with his too-often-left-behind dog. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said primly, reaching around him to open the front door. “Until tomorrow.”
He stepped out onto the porch, turned back. “When you say pink, you at least mean a discreet mauve, right?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Turner.”
He turned away. “Strawberry lemonade my ass.”
The front door slammed behind him, and he grinned at the metallic ting of the follow-up sound. He’d been spot on, as usual. That brass knocker really was a good door slam away from its demise.
Chapter Three
THURSDAY, AUGUST 8
I didn’t even know places like this existed,” Audrey said, glancing around in awe.
“What, hardware stores?” Naomi Powell asked, holding one of the metal objects she’d accumulated from her tour of the store up to Audrey’s ear, as though assessing the bolt for earring potential. Knowing Naomi, she probably was assessing it for earring potential. Naomi wasn’t a jewelry designer, per say, but as founder of Maxcessory, a subscription accessory service, she was always on the lookout for the next big thing.
“Are they all like this?” Audrey asked, looking adorably out of place in her lace dress and platform sandals. “Actually, I think this is a relatively small version of a hardware store,” Claire said as she picked up yet another swatch of paint colors and added it to her stack. “Home Depots are even more massive anywhere outside of Manhattan.”
Both her friends gave her a curious look at her expertise, and Claire shrugged. “I took an Uber out to a Jersey hardware store when I first started thinking about the renovation.”
“Jersey,” Audrey mused, as though it were a foreign country and not just a few miles to the west.
“Real talk,” Naomi said, looking at Audrey. “When was the last time you left Manhattan?”
“Last month,” Audrey retorted, clearly proud to shake up Naomi’s assumption that the Upper East Side princess never left her own neighborhood.
“Really?” Claire glanced over in surprise.
Not that Claire herself could claim to be any more adventurous most days. She’d been born and raised in the Connecticut suburbs, but the city had gotten under her skin in a permanent kind of way almost immediately. She couldn’t imagine calling anywhere other than Manhattan home.
But Audrey Tate didn’t just live in Manhattan, she was Manhattan. A society princess through and through. Not only that, she’d literally made a career out of it. Audrey was an “influencer,” which Claire fully admitted to never having heard of before meeting Audrey. For that matter, she still wasn’t entirely sure she got it, but as far as she could tell, companies paid the gorgeous, charismatic Audrey to feature their handbags, shoes, beauty products, sports bras, anything, on her blog and Instagram.
“I did, too, leave Manhattan,” Audrey insisted, her tone smug. “I was in the Hamptons for two weeks last month.”
Naomi snorted. “Doesn’t count.”
“It does, too!” Audrey protested. “Claire?”
“No, dear.” Claire patted her arm, then she put the swatches in her bag. “Not really.”
Audrey frowned stubbornly. “Naomi asked if I’d left Manhattan. I have.”
“Fine, we’ll give you that one on a technicality,” Naomi said, scooping up the assortment of metal bits and bobs in two hands. “Who wants to help me put these back in their right spots?”
Audrey squinted at the assortment of stuff. “I couldn’t tell you what a single one of those things is.”
Claire just shrugged. She’d learned her way around the home improvement store in recent months, but her expertise was mostly limited to tile samples and paint swatches.
“All right, Plan B,” Naomi said, scanning the store until she found who she was looking for. Fixing a bright smile on her face, Naomi strode purposefully toward an employee. Claire recognized the fifty-something guy. He was crusty, irritable, and condescending, especially to women.
But not all women, apparently.
Claire watched in bemusement as Naomi not only coaxed a smile from the man, but a full-on laugh. Claire felt an unexpected jolt of envy at how effortlessly dynamic her friend was. She bet Naomi didn’t get generic birthday cards. She bet Naomi didn’t default to beige everything.
Claire watched as the Home Depot guy blushed. Blushed!
“How does she do that?” Claire mused.
Audrey glanced up from her phone. “How does who do what?”
Claire nodded toward Naomi. “I’ve been in this store at least a dozen times, and I haven’t so much as gotten a civil word from that man.
He’s known Naomi all of thirty seconds and is practically eating out of her hand, even though she’s just handed him an hour’s worth of work in putting all that crap away.”
“She’s got a gift,” Audrey said distractedly.
“Yes, but what is the gift?” Claire pressed.
Her friend finally registered that Claire was actually asking, and it wasn’t just a rhetorical question. “Well.” Audrey glanced over at Naomi and then back. “It’s her confidence, I suppose. That’s like, eighty percent of the art of flirting.”
“Flirting,” Claire repeated, testing the word out. She hadn’t voiced or given much thought to the concept of flirting in . . . years. And not just because she’d been a married woman, but because come to think of it, Claire wasn’t sure she’d ever really mastered flirting.
“Yes, flirting,” Audrey said with a little laugh. “You know, eye contact, lingering smiles, banter.”
“But she’s with Oliver.”
Audrey smiled kindly. “Sure, but flirting’s not always about romancing someone.”
“Then what’s it about? How does one decide with whom to flirt?”
“With whom—what—” Audrey broke off when she saw Naomi approaching, “Oh thank God. Backup.”
“On what?” Naomi demanded.
“Trying to explain to Claire the nature of flirting.”
Naomi shook her head. “Pointless endeavor. Flirting’s not an explainable thing. It’s more of an art than a science. It just happens.”
That wasn’t a good enough answer for Claire. There had to be a reason why men smiled and laughed with Naomi—and Audrey, for that matter—whereas Claire generally only warranted bland smiles or polite indifference.
Yes, her friends were gorgeous. Naomi was the sort of woman people looked twice at, and not just because of her bright blue eyes, dark red hair, and toned runner’s body. But it was her energy that drew people in. The way she seemed to own every room she walked into and dared people to ignore her.
And Audrey was beautiful in her own right with long shiny brown hair and wide Bambi brown eyes, but that wasn’t why people flocked to her. It was her sweetness. Not saccharine sweetness, but a genuine goodness that people wanted to be around.
Love on Lexington Avenue Page 3
